(As an aside, I apologize for my delay in getting this out. The past two months have been trying, and this piece is a long one. Read at your own peril.)

Just as the Shakur family had fled the streets of New York for the allure of peace in Baltimore, they retreated in 1988 to what Afeni Shakur had pictured as a quaint, idyllic respite from crime—Marin City, California. But that little town, nestled beneath affluent settlements in the surrounding hills, was no such paradise: local cops had nicknamed it “The Jungle,” with its single main street, school, public-housing project, and store (for liquor). Crime was pernicious; Afeni fell victim to its byproduct through her worsening crack addiction. And, while she obfuscated the dire state of her dependency to Pac, conflict came to a head between the two. Tupac moved out and joined a few of his peers in squatting in an abandoned apartment.

Though Pac gained independence from his mother, he could not escape the influence of illicit drugs—Pac started dealing to support himself, along with various odd jobs. He found solace in the fraternity of the street life, a respite from the discord and chaos of his interpersonal life. He would later express this sentiment in one of his most famous tracks, “Dear Mama”:

They say I'm wrong and I'm heartless, but all along
I was lookin' for a father, he was gone
I hung around with the thugs
And even though they sold drugs
They showed a young brother love
I moved out and started really hangin'
I needed money of my own, so I started slangin'

Having moved to Marin City with one year left in his education, Tupac continued his studies over those wealthy hills at Tamalpais High School. The juxtaposition between Pac’s personal circumstances and those of his peers was jarring; Tupac later relayed in an interview with writer Kevin Powell that he was targeted for harassment by his peers. "It'd be the shitty, dumb n***as who had women, rides, houses, and I ain’t have shit… All through my time there they used to diss me… I got love but the kind of love you would give a dog or a neighborhood crack fiend… They liked me because I was at the bottom."

Rapping became an indispensable outlet for Pac. As graduation neared, Tupac started rapping more and attending school less, eventually eschewing his studies completely for his rhymes. After leaving school, he spent a brief stint with a family friend, Watani Tchyemba, in South-Central Los Angeles as a community organizer. But Pac was unsatisfied with the reminder of his mother in the political energy of Tchyemba and his colleagues, instead opting to return to Marin City and devoting himself entirely to rap. It was then that Tupac encountered a woman who would change his life: Leila Steinberg.

Leila was an accomplished singer and dancer, and a nascent but passionate devotee of hip hop. Like Tupac, she had been immersed in the struggle for racial equality in her early years. Though white, Leila was born the daughter of a criminal defense attorney in 1961—her father’s work informing her of the disparities of the criminal justice system—and she grew up in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles, well known for its prominent riots in 1965 over racial inequality. Too, Leila’s mother encouraged her to engage in social protest, especially in advocating for the rights of migrant farmworkers. Later, when Leila’s mother left to pursue social advocacy full-time, Leila entered into the world of music through her grandfather’s introduction of salsa, Brazilian, and Latin dances. Leila had quite the knack for dance and began performing.

Leila’s early adulthood saw her tour with various artists, including Carlos Santana’s band, and she married Bruce Crawford, a DJ who was inextricably intertwined with the Los Angeles and San Francisco rap scenes. She soon began hosting workshops on writing and performance for the underprivileged youth of the Bay Area. The summation of these elements of Leila’s background primed her for the irresistible allure of Tupac Shakur; their meeting was to be the catalyst for transformative growth in two young people.

A park in Marin City provided the setting for their first official introduction. Leila was sitting on the grass reading A Part of My Soul Went with Him by Winnie Mandela, which Tupac noticed and remarked, “Give me a break. What do you know about Winnie Mandela?” Now, Tupac stumbling upon Leila was likely no coincidence—she had connections in the music industry, and Pac was an enterprising individual—but their initial encounter proved mutually enchanting, regardless. Leila invited Tupac to her class, and, over the next few months, his presence usurped all else in her professional life. And soon their personal lives began to intertwine, too; after Tupac revealed the chaos of his home life, Leila suggested he become a part of her household. Leila soon grew into the stabilizing figure he needed for a brief but deeply nurturing moment in Pac’s life.

But the structure that Leila provided was not the only benefit of their relationship: Tupac offered insight into the person that Leila should become. She recalls this moment in an interview with NPR:

So, when I met Tupac, I had little girls and he was like, ‘How are you going to really parent and be the parent that you want to be and not the parent your mother was and run around in a band? You say you want to touch the world and you want to — you got to learn business. And I could be your first business.’ And so I was like, ‘That's crazy. I don't know anything — I'm not good at business.’

Although Leila doubted her business acumen, with Tupac’s help, she proved sufficiently adept to launch his career: Leila’s call with Atron Gregory, manager of a hit rap group called Digital Underground, lit the fuse on a career that would soon explode. And, as a token of his trust and appreciation, Tupac conferred his important papers and poems to Leila upon leaving her home. Many of them are published in The Rose That Grew from Concrete.

Tupac was a superstar in the making, and his stint with Digital Underground would serve as a launchpad. First hired on as a roadie and a backup dancer, Pac soon gained the opportunity to debut his emceeing skills—notably, under the newly minted moniker, 2Pac—on Digital Underground’s “Same Song,” released one day before his 19th birthday. Tupac’s first showing as a rapper on a major track was a good effort; his verse had a relatively pedestrian subject but impassioned command of the microphone and notable rhyming skills:

Now I clown around when I hang around with the Underground
Girls who used to frown, say "I'm down" when I come around
Gas me and when they pass me they used to diss me
Harass me, but now they ask me if they can kiss me

And the music video provided the world a first glance at the face of Tupac Amaru Shakur. Dressed as an African king and carried into the room by servants, Pac could hardly have chosen a more theatrical debut for his actor’s heart. His youthful exuberance carried an effervescent energy in just eight short bars; you could see a glow on his face and a playful energy. Pac was off to the races.

In 1991, Pac appeared with Digital Underground in Nothing But Trouble, starring Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase, John Candy, and Demi Moore. In their scene, Digital Underground is held up in traffic court and must perform “Same Song” to gain release. The energy of their performance becomes infectious, and soon the judge himself joins in.

Tupac’s time with Digital Underground—particularly through moments like “Same Song” and Nothing But Trouble—started to elevate his status as a rapper, and the stars began aligning for Pac’s first record deal. Tupac’s demo tape floated around industry players and ended up on the desks of Ted Field and Jimmy Iovine, founders of Interscope Records. Field was an heir to the Marshall Field retailing fortune and a television and film producer; Iovine was a legendary music producer and industry insider. Although Field and Iovine were heavy hitters in their respective areas of expertise, Interscope was a fledgling label when they signed Tupac in August 1991: it had opened up shop just two years prior. But the signing of Tupac and several other key players like No Doubt, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg contributed to the label’s meteoric rise in the years to follow.

In November 1991, the fleetingly incipient solo career of 2Pac began with his debut in 2Pacalypse Now. 2Pac’s inaugural effort opens with “Young Black Male,” which features Pac spitting over a simple instrumental with a driving rock beat, à la Public Enemy. The lyrics emanate a mixture of bombast and social commentary, expounding on life while young and Black:

Young black male
I try to effect by kicking the facts
And stacking much mail
I'm packing a gat 'cause cops wanna jack
And fuck going to jail
'Cause I ain't a crook, despite how I look
I don't sell yayo
They judging a brother like covers on books

On another cut, “Soulja’s Story,” Pac begins to stir the controversy that would lead then Vice President Dan Quayle to publicly condemn the album:

Crack done took a part of my family tree
My momma's on the shit, my daddy split and moms is steady blaming me
Is it my fault, just cause I'm a young black male?
Cops sweat me as if my destiny is makin' crack sales
Only fifteen and got problems
Cops on my tail, so I bail 'til I dodge 'em
They finally pull me over and I laugh
"Remember Rodney King?" and I blast on his punk ass
Now I got a murder case...

In 1992, a Texas Highway Patrol Trooper was shot and killed by a man who was listening to “Soulja’s Story” at the time of being pulled over. The shooter claimed that rap music had fomented a hatred of police officers in him, and reactionaries took the bait. Tupac and Interscope were hit with a civil suit over the officer’s death that, while ultimately proving unsuccessful, mimicked the resistance that rappers faced in free expression.

The controversy surrounding 2Pacalypse Now was not an uncommon phenomenon for hip hop artists: Ice-T’s song “Cop Killer” was pulled from stores later in 1992 following a moral haranguing by political figures and police officers alike (George H. W. Bush and the Combined Law Enforcement Associations of Texas, respectively).

Yet, despite the contentious nature of the political response to 2Pacalypse Now, Pac’s solo effort debuted at the 64th slot on the Billboard 200 and had sold over 500,000 copies by April 19, 1995. It was a commercial success by all accounts—especially for an up and coming artist—but it was just a small taste of what was to come for Tupac Shakur.

Pac’s next big break came from a starring role in the 1992 movie, Juice. At the time, “juice” was a term in the inner cities of America for a sort of social capital relentlessly pursued by the young and powerless. In the lead role of Bishop, Tupac delivered a commanding performance and received critical acclaim for his magnetism. Tupac had transcended music to become a successful actor, and he was only 20 years old.

Following on the heels of his Hollywood fame, Tupac Shakur set out to navigate the waters of street activism; Pac launched T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. (The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everyone) to create an urban social movement. T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. served as a confirmation of Tupac’s convictions for the advancement of Black people, but it also sealed his persona among the mainstream: while the acronym made sense to those who paid attention, too many saw it as proof of the gangsta personas of rappers. In hearing “thug life” without the context of the full meaning and Tupac’s intentions, Americans quickly indulged in stereotypes of men like Pac—that they were hoodlums who reveled in criminality.

While Tupac’s intentions were pure—to heal rifts between the Black community and prevent black-on-black violence—the moniker of T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. prevented mainstream acceptance of his ideals. And the code of the streets that guided the organization proved problematic in its own right. Pac managed to convene the leaders of the Bloods and the Crips for adoption of a street constitution, but these new rules only served to refine who was to be targeted by violence: fewer civilians, more gang members.

And Pac’s notoriety would only increase in the last years of his life—controversy to match his superstardom.

More to come…

Tupac (2Pac or Pac) Shakur was a rapper, actor, and icon of the 1990s. Widely considered one of the greatest rappers of all time, Tupac melded the gangsta and the gentle, the militant and the mild. His music was raw and expressive, examining the many complex, and sometimes contradictory, facets of his being: the belligerent warrior (“Ambitionz Az a Ridah”), the loving soul (“Dear Mama”), the contemplative social activist (“White Man’z World”), the consummate player (“How Do U Want It”), and the sagacious street veteran (“Tradin War Stories”). Sadly, Tupac met his untimely end at the tender age of 25, stricken by the gunfire of a drive-by shooter. His story was one of triumph and tragedy—a story that I would like to examine in this series to inform our understanding of contemporary America. I tend to believe that Pac would have plenty to say if he were still with us today.

I can’t remember exactly when I first heard a 2Pac song. He died shortly after I was born, but I seem to recall hearing his music on the radio or MTV in my early life. In any case, I came to hear many of his most famous tracks as my years—and those after Tupac’s death—grew in number. “California Love” and “Keep Ya Head Up” likely filtered into my musical selections through Pandora, as did “Changes” and “All Eyez on Me.” By high school, I was an unabashed fan; in a scholarship essay for a college I had been considering, I indicated Pac as the historical figure (living or dead) whom I would most like to share a lunch with. I didn’t get that scholarship.

However, the time I took in learning about Tupac’s story endeared him more to me than simply listening to his music had previously. He had a richness of person and an intricacy that appealed to me. Pac was an incendiary and a balm. He was genuine and open, but he never shied from playing a character. Tupac represented the struggles of street life and the allure of celebrity. And he was a global superstar searching for peace in his troubled mind. In short, Tupac had a fascinating life. It was by no means perfect—none of ours are—but it was a story worthy of retelling, which I will endeavor (in part) to do ahead.

Tupac was born on June 16, 1971, to Afeni Shakur in Harlem, New York. He was born Lesane Parish Crooks, but Tupac’s mother changed his given name to Tupac Amaru after joining the Black Panther party. Shakur's namesake, Túpac Amaru II, was an 18th-century Peruvian insurgent who led a popular, but ultimately unsuccessful, indigenous uprising against the Spanish, costing Amaru II his life. In retrospect, it seemed eerily fitting that Afeni would christen her son with a revolutionary name, only for him to take on an often radical mantle and meet a similar fate.

Tupac’s father, Billy Garland (another Panther), left from his life when Tupac was five years old. Afeni also gave birth to a daughter named Sekyiwa, whose father was Mutulu Shakur—the inspiration for Tupac’s surname. Like Garland, Mutulu was a Black Panther. And, like Garland, he soon left Afeni, too. Tupac emerged fatherless for a second time—a theme that would later present in Tupac’s music. However, though Pac’s experiences with a father figure were limited, he knew an extended family in the Black Panther Party. Tupac later expressed his admiration for the organization (and, more broadly, his Black countrymen) in this poem called “Can U C the Pride in the Panther”:

Can u c the pride in the pantha
as he glows in splendor and grace
Toppling OBSTACLES placed in the way
of the progression of his race

Can u c the pride in the Pantha
as she nurtures her young all alone
The seed must grow regardless
of the fact that it's planted in stone

CAN'T u c the Pride in the panthas
as they unify as one
The flower blooms with brilliance
and outshines the ray of the Sun

Tupac grew into a man while buttressed by the ideals of Black radical thought and free expression. Afeni had chosen his upbringing to intertwine with a fight for Black liberation; the Black Panthers were among the most influential Black Power groups of the 20th century. Some of Pac’s close relatives and family friends also participated in the Black Liberation Army—an underground revolutionary organization dedicated to engaging the United States in asymmetrical warfare—including his step-father, Mutulu Shakur. Mutulu remains incarcerated for charges stemming from the robbery of an armored car and murder of two police officers in 1981.

In that sense, it could be said that Tupac resembled the tragic hero Achilles: bathed in the River Styx, destined for a warrior’s path. But that soldier’s upbringing camouflaged a delicate and earnest soul. Tupac’s family moved from New York to Baltimore in 1984; three years later, Tupac attended the Baltimore School for the Arts (BSA), where he excelled at acting, poetry, jazz, and ballet. Classmates and teachers described him as possessing an unyielding magnetism, incredible acting talent, and an attunement to the plight of the marginalized—particularly those of Baltimore’s poor Black communities. Pac flourished at BSA, composing poems, starring in plays, and effortlessly flowing in informal rap battles around the school. It was there that he met a young actress-to-be, Jada Pinkett (Smith), whom he would remain friends with for the rest of his short life.

Yet all was not well in Tupac’s world. Though he and his family had moved to Baltimore to escape a life of turbulence—they had previously bounced around homes, sometimes living in shelters—Afeni’s crack cocaine addiction grew increasingly debilitating after their arrival. Tupac worked nights and weekends at a restaurant to support his family and often sheltered overnight with friends. And in 1988, Tupac’s senior year, the time came for the Shakur family to move again: this time to Marin City, California. It was in California that Tupac catapulted into stardom.

The next issue will cover Tupac’s meteoric rise to global prominence.

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In exploring that iconic hip hop soundscape, we must dive into the origins of the movement. Hip hop emerged in 1970s New York, born of African and Caribbean music and spoken word traditions, and mixed in with radical Black art and political expression. Public Enemy’s iconic 1989 track, “Fight the Power,” is an example of the logical conclusion of these two interweaving paths. Traditionally, hip hop culture relied on several key elements: rapping (or “emceeing”), deejaying, breakdancing, and graffiti. These are the four original tenets of hip hop culture. Over time, emcees like KRS-One expanded those concepts to include notions like street knowledge and street fashion, but the original four kick-started the hip hop movement.

Early hip hop tracks were fairly rudimentary by today’s standards: simple rhyme schemes (or no rhyming at all) and modest production styles. Hearing a rapper like MF DOOM spit intricate bars on the mic in the early 2000s is a very different beast from listening to Sugar Hill Gang’s revolutionary yet simple 1979 track “Rapper’s Delight.” But over the decade that followed, artists like Eric B. & Rakim and Big Daddy Kane added manifold layers to hip hop expression, incorporating multisyllabic rhyming, innovative flows (the rhythm of a person’s rapping), and increasingly sophisticated music production.

Moving into the 90s, the hip hop scene exploded in every direction. De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest elevated smooth, jazz-inspired tracks with eccentric lyricism. N.W.A., Snoop Dogg, and 2Pac ushered in the era of G-Funk in the West, extrapolating from the music of funk legends George Clinton and Zapp to create a synthesizer-drenched gangsta rap sound. On the East Coast, a gritty street-inspired opulence emerged from the Notorious B.I.G., Jay-Z, Nas, and the Wu-Tang Clan. Finally, the South created wildly divergent sounds—the wistful soul of Outkast, the lyrically dizzying hustlers of UGK, and the crunk sound of Three 6 Mafia. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it provides a synopsis of some of the major players of 1990s hip hop. And, speaking of the 90s, that brings us back to DOOM in 1999.

MF DOOM’s sound on Operation: Doomsday was avant-garde and jazzy like De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest, with a healthy dose of that trademark New York kick drum and snare—the boom bap sound. Pioneered by titans of the industry like DJ Premier, Pete Rock, and 9th Wonder, boom bap flooded the airwaves of New York in the 90s and comprised the beats of some of hip hop’s most iconic tracks (e.g. Nas’s “N.Y. State of Mind” and the Wu-Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M.”). And Dumile’s production followed suit on his first solo LP. So, when you hear that ba-dum-dum-tish, ba-dum-dum-tish on “Gas Drawls,” realize that Dumile was creating his own interpretation of a classic hip hop sound.

Too, much like RZA of the Wu-Tang Clan, Dumile incorporated old clips from shows and movies (called “samples”) to further a narrative—for Dumile, comic-themed villainy; for RZA, kung fu sensibilities. However, while the martial arts mythos of the Wu-Tang Clan aided in creating an artistic flair for their projects, it was largely an accessory to an already compelling story. In Dumile’s case, the sample material became the artist. Dumile fashioned an identity from the comic book supervillain Dr. Doom, using the nom de plume of MF DOOM. Dumile wore a metal mask to his public appearances, including this interview where he explains the nuances of its inclusion into his persona. His lyrics often represented these fictional villainous tendencies, and Dumile’s insertion of old comic book television show clips into his music furthered that character. And, if that wasn’t enough, Dumile was known to send out imposters wearing the DOOM mask to shows, instructing them to lip-sync to his songs. He lived and breathed the role of the supervillain.

But MF DOOM was not Dumile’s only character. For one, there was King Geedorah, the kaiju-like space monster modeled off Godzilla’s King Ghidora. Another was Viktor Vaughn, a space-travelling rapper and scientist who fled a ban of hip hop in his home dimension. Metal Fingers was Dumile’s pseudonym for his production efforts, while Zev Love X was the masked emcee’s first moniker. Dumile had created an entire universe for his personas to interface, an unparalleled feat of imagination in hip hop. Yet Dumile never strayed too far into the obscure; his references could appear cryptic, yes, but he managed to maintain the listener’s interest with wit, charm, and pure technical rapping ability.

Let’s turn back to “Gas Drawls.” MF DOOM opens with a fusillade of bars:

By the way, I re-up on bad dreams, bag up screams in fiftys
Be up on mad schemes that heat shop like jiffy-pop(pop)
In a instant get smoked like Winston Cigarettes
Ho's get ripped off like Nicorette patch
In real life the real trife scene
Might snatch ya life like assault machine
Rifle, dead up setup like bull-fight
Be blunted how we like couldn't white or in full flight

“Gas Drawls” is typical of the DOOM catalog: clever punchlines, double entendres, potent rhyming, recondite references, and imaginative slang. In just eight bars, MF DOOM spans the gamut of his lyrical prowess through incorporating drug dealing lingo (“re-up” and “fiftys"), offbeat allusions (conjuring gunfire from popcorn with “jiffy-pop[pop]”), and double meanings (using “smoked” to denote cigarettes and getting shot). Yet, despite the verse’s seemingly violent contents, DOOM isn’t really talking about killing anyone. All the tough talk he spits is a metaphor for his prowess on the mic; DOOM likens his words to weapons and his rhymes to bullets that might penetrate an opposing emcee’s chest. This is the incredible power of Daniel Dumile’s pen—bar after bar could pass you by without hearing a single line with a straight meaning.

Now, that is not to say that Dumile was purposefully opaque or inaccessible. He just happened to have an unreal store of references of myriad genres, an objectively impressive vocabulary, and transcendent rhyming abilities. Let’s look at another MF DOOM cut, “Figaro,” off the collaborative album with producer Madlib, Madvillainy. Forgive the wall of text, but this deserves an extensive look:

The rest is empty with no brain, but the clever nerd
The best MC with no chain ya ever heard
Take it from the TEC-9 holder
They've bit but don't know their neck shine from Shinola
Everything that glitters ain't fishscale
Lemme think, don't let her faint get Ishmael
A shot of Jack got her back it's not an act stack
Forgot about the cackalack, holla back; clack-clack, blocka
Villainy, feel him in ya heart chakra, chart-toppa
Start-shit stoppa, be a smart shoppa
Shot-a-Cop day around the way 'bout to stay
But who'd a know there's two mo' that wonder where the shooter go

If you click on each of the links above, you can reach the annotation for the lyrics. I highly recommend taking a look. But, in any case, here is a quick breakdown of just the first two lines:

In those two bars, MF DOOM completes three separate multisyllabic rhymes in succession. As if that weren’t enough, DOOM fits some clever wordplay and multiple meanings into two lines. “The rest is empty with no brain, but the clever nerd” is a rather inventive way to present a relatively pedestrian statement—that other rappers don’t possess the intelligence of DOOM. But “the best MC with no chain ya ever heard” is jaw-droppingly impressive. At face value, DOOM appears only to be spitting about his excellence as a rapper, just without a typical chain (jewelry). But the Dumile pen is infrequently that perfunctory. Instead, in looking at the context of the song and his other works, DOOM is relaying multiple things: his distaste for the materialism of jewelry and appearance-driven hip hop, his spurning the chains of a record deal (DOOM was an independent artist), and possibly even the idea that DOOM eschewed a chain (his ego) by assuming the villain persona, which afforded him the ability to focus solely on his music. It’s an incredibly dense series of 20 words.

Line after line follow with cunning lyricism and impeccable rhyming. Seriously, watch this video if you want a visual indicator of how absurd Dumile was at stringing together rhymes. And here’s another example. And another. Do you need me to keep going? Point is, Dumile was perhaps the best ever at rhyming. But that is only one facet of emceeing. Let me quickly run through some of his wittiest punchlines for good measure.

Madvillainy’s “Great Day”:

Last wish: I wish I had two more wishes
And I wish they fixed the door to the matrix, there's mad glitches
Spit so many verses sometimes my jaw twitches
One thing this party could use is more... ahem
Booze

You see where “ahem” is? The rhyming pattern makes sense for “bitches” to be the next line, but that would be too easy for DOOM. He relies on the listener’s expectation of the punchline, then subverts that expected result for a funny quotable. Oh, and “booze” rhymes with “use.” Missing the rhyme just wouldn’t do.

Vaudeville Villain’s “Lickupon”:

There's four sides to every story
If these walls could talk, they'd probably still ignore me

Dumile plays with the word “story” here, meaning the traditional narrative sense and a story of a building. Typically, the phrase goes, “there’s two sides to every story.” But Dumile sees the opportunity to tie another common phrase, “if these walls could talk,” to the first line to create double entendres. He inserts some self-deprecating humor to say that if the four sides (walls) of the story (building) could talk to him, they’d have nothing to say. Dumile uses this to either hint at his own triviality in the world (the walls see nothing of merit) or a gesture at mental illness (he’s talking to walls, but they aren’t talking back). It’s nothing short of brilliant to create such intricate poetry in only two lines. But Dumile does that time and time again.

Finally, a short bar from Madvillainy’s “Rhinestone Cowboy”:

Got more soul than a sock with a hole

Get it? It’s not as complex, but it always draws a chuckle from me.

The point is… Dumile was a genius. I haven’t even mentioned one of his best albums, MM…Food, which revolved solely around food topics: “Beef Rap” (a song about rap feuds, known as beefs), “Guinnesses” (a song about using alcohol to numb the pain of a relationship ending), and “Kon Queso” (a reference to cheese, which is slang for money). And I barely touched on his production prowess or his influence on other rappers and producers. You could write a dissertation about his music (which I have partly done here).

Daniel Dumile was a singular talent, and he will be sorely missed. I recommend taking a dive into his entire catalog, but if you have to prioritize, the essentials are Madvillainy, MM…Food, Vaudeville Villain, and Operation: Doomsday. There are various other solo DOOM projects out there and ones with different collaborators (Danger Mouse, Bishop Nehru, Czarface, and more), but the albums I listed are my personal favorites.

Here’s to everything, DOOM. Just remember ALL CAPS when you spell the man name.

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